Cafe Margot
by Chela
Summary: A certain potions master heats up a sexy barmaid in a Paris cafe. It's like expresso. Hot, short, bitter, and not for children.


This fan fiction is loosely based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
She recognized him the minute she saw him walk past her bar. He always sat at the same small table in the back, his back against the wall. English. Nearer forty than thirty, from her guess. Always alone. Black coffee with a brandy back. Usually he carried several books with him; once she swore he was writing chemistry equations. Dark hair and deep set, dark eyes. A hawkish profile. Dressed like the rest of Europe in black, black, and black, but very tailored, very classy. She'd always been attracted to that type. The loner. The kind who didn't realize his innate sexuality. The type who'd unleash himself when given the opportunity. Almost certainly some kind of wizard.  
Sharada had been working at Chez Margot's for six months now, earning enough to keep studying in Paris, but not much more. Margot's got plenty of traffic, but only because of its ownership. It was a genuine French dive. A long, narrow cafe with real, polished brass (she knew, she'd polished it herself) and smoke- darkened walls. A noisy ceiling fan circulated the stale air day and night. Margot's was the darker, dingier version of a Renoir bar scene. What kept it profitable was its connections to the wizarding world. Margot had been dead sixty years, but her sons and daughters were all of magical blood. Alongside the cheap red wine, strong coffee, and dry croissants were unlabeled vats of pumpkin juice, butter beer, and other treats available "by request only." In Paris, the average wizard usually stumbled into Margot's- and stumbled out - with remarkable regularity.  
Sharada had no idea about the existence of this niche of society when she begged a cleaning job off Margot's eldest granddaughter Eliane, her landlady. Sharada rented an equally dingy one-room flat on the top floor of Margot's. She'd won Eliane's friendship, then her trust, and now, though an outsider, she knew their habits - that of the wizards- as well as her own.  
It was late afternoon when he ducked inside out of a heavy rain. Like a good barmaid, she remembered his order and brought him a steaming cup of coffee and a dry hand towel. He nodded to her, hardly acknowledging her. He was too engrossed in his journal. Like a good barmaid, she discreetly disappeared into the scenery, leaving him to his reading. She caught a glance of herself in the mirror behind the bar. Her hair was the same shade of midnight black as his, but she thought he must, like most people, tower over her. She'd inherited her mother's petite size and French looks.  
It was slow, and she was the only waitress there for another hour, or she wouldn't have had the time or the nerve to do what she did next. But since the room was practically empty on this August afternoon, and sinfully hot and muggy nonetheless, she sat behind the bar in the corner closest to the dark haired man and poured herself a large bourbon on the rocks. Liquid gold, she thought, as finally her insides started to cool down. A different kind of heat started to develop in her body. This one was familiar and welcome.  
Margot's uniform, a white starched shirt, long black skirt, and white apron did nothing to help her rising temperature. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, thought a moment, then undid another button. She wiped down the bar, casually minding the few regulars, but her eyes always returned to the man in the corner. Longish black hair occasionally swept into his face. His hands were unnaturally long and graceful, pushing his hair back absentmindedly, gripping the handle of the coffee cup, turning thick, yellowed pages. He wrote determinedly, filling cream-colored page after page in a leather-bound journal. She imagined those hands unbuttoning her stiff, white blouse, cupping the weight of her breasts over her thin chemise. A silent sigh languished on her lips and she took another sip of whiskey. A fat German couple entered and ordered a pitcher of butter beer. She served them quickly and went back to her drink. The taste of whiskey on the back of her throat made her whole body relax; made the room seem ten degrees colder.  
"That's more like it." she said to herself, holding the icy glass against her face as condensation mixed with her perspiration. She stopped when she felt someone's eyes on her. The man in the back. Her first reaction was to put her glass down and wipe away the chilly sensation against her damp skin. But it was too erotic, too visceral to wipe up and forget. Let him watch, she thought to herself. I'll give him a little show if he wants it. What do I have to lose? An anonymous waitress in a less-than-respectable cafe. That's all she was. She felt a canny, edgy freedom born out of knowing she was so far down the ladder that nothing she did could knock her down any further. She looked him in the eyes, daring him to react as she held the icy glass to her throat and let the condensation drip between her breasts and down to her stomach.  
He cleared his throat. His voice was deep and slightly sarcastic. "Mon brandy, Mademoiselle. Quand vous avez le temps." Sharada had the time, all right, and gave him a searching, surly look before she poured him a large snifter, larger than any of Margot's kin would have liked. She placed it at the edge of his table and swaggered back to her post at the end of the bar. It had stopped raining, and the cafe was getting positively steamy in the dusky yellow sun. She picked out one of the ice cubes from the glass and popped it in her mouth. The ice was almost too cold to hold there between her lips; as it melted a thin trickle of water escaped and seeped down her neck. She liked the way it felt, and she picked out another cube and ran it down the gorge of her neck and across her collarbone. She thought about a cold shower when she got home. Then another whiskey, she imagined. Then what? Automatically she looked around the bar, trying to imagine how to entertain herself. The German couple was engrossed in a petty, guttural argument. The few regulars she knew to avoid from experience. That left the man in the back. The man with the long jacket and wool pants, even in August. The man with the leather-bound journal and the brandy.  
  
Without asking, she placed another half-full snifter down next to him and confidently pulled out a chair. Lonely scholar, late afternoon. An evening's entertainment in her book.  
"Another brandy, sir? On the house."  
The fact that she addressed him in English didn't elicit any reaction. "Thank you." he replied, in a biting Northern accent. He accepted the drink and held it in his hand, avoiding eye contact.  
Slowly, she turned the cafe chair to face herself and lowered herself down, her legs encircling the seat back, tomboy style. He looked up for a moment, and had to fight to refocus his attention back on his books.  
"Anything else you need?" she asked, wiping small circles on the table with a rag from the back of her apron, watching the way his hair caught the last, slanting light, the shadows sliding along his forehead and his jaw. The chair back pressed against her breasts, maximizing an already indecent pose. It made her feel sexy and in control.  
"Non, merci. Thank you for the drink." Back to the books. He moistened the tip of his finger and turned a page.  
She gave him a long look. Sexy, in his own way. Lean. Taller and more muscular that he lets on, under those dark clothes. Those hands. She could feel them caressing the curves of her body, not the lines of a book. But he was about as responsive as her ice cube. At least the ice melted when it touched her body.  
Just as she'd decided to give up the pursuit and resign herself to TV for the night, he stayed her hand on the table and spoke.  
"You could help me with something, perhaps." He glanced around at the empty tables and lowered his voice. A proposition? He took a final sip of the brandy, finishing it off. Here it comes. "Would you show me to Marche des Alpes? When your shift is over. I'll pay you."  
Not the kind of proposition she had in mind. She rose, picking up the empty glasses. Marche des Alpes was famous, or rather, infamous for harboring the lowest of the lowlifes of the magical world. A kind of a traveling black market that only people like those who worked at a place like Chez Margot's would know about. She knew it intimately. Very few Muggles did, and wizards from good families didn't speak of it in public. Knowing where illegal drugs, magical creatures, and black-market goods could be found at any given time wasn't exactly something to be proud of.  
"Certainment. Quinze minutes." she said, with her best Parisian accent, and pushed the chair back under the table. She poured herself another whiskey, watching him in the dying, smoke-hazy light and waited for her shift to be over. This evening just got more interesting.  
  
Eliane arrived shortly. When Sharada unfastened her apron and threw it into the laundry pile, the man in the back of the cafe met her eyes as if by a secret signal, packed up his books, and rose to meet her.  
Eliane had worked in a bar for forty years. She didn't need magic to know a pickup when she saw one. She whispered, her cigarette dangling out the side of her mouth. "Je lui connaissais. Fait attention. Tu t'amuse." I know him. Be careful. Have fun. she sniggered with humorous resignation only an aged Parisian barmaid could pull off.  
He followed Sharada outside the bar, past the still-bickering German couple and several newly-arrived Americans.  
  
They crossed the street and descended into the Metro. They boarded the train, and he sat down to readjust his books in a dark canvas bag. She took the seat next to him, the closest she'd been to him yet. His clothes carried a faint aroma of cedar and oakmoss. She filled her lungs with it.  
She shook out her short black hair. "Sharada. American, living in Paris six months. Twenty four. I'm a graduate student, not just a barmaid. I've seen you in the cafe once or twice before."  
"Severus. British, currently living in Scotland. Thirty-seven. Professor."  
  
Marche des Alpes was on par with Nocturn Alley for seediness. The worst of all worlds met here. Sharada didn't know what Severus wanted here, and it would have been imprudent of her to ask. She'd ended up here more than once at the end of a wild night. Sometimes the black-market stalls and illicit rave parties was amusing, but more than once less desirable elements, from prostitutes and gangs to murder had brought the Paris police around, only to find the Marche des Alpes disappeared, surfacing weeks later in another location.  
They came up to the city streets and the sky was dark.  
"Follow me," she said, taking his hand. She was definitely sober now, yet she felt a different type of intoxication as his hand pressed against hers. She wished she was leading him somewhere dark and romantic, not dark and dangerous. Keeping an eye out for troublemakers, she slipped down a service alley, Severus a half-step behind.  
Marche des Alpes was currently located in the storage area of an abandoned grocery. She felt claustrophobic and tense as she led him through a dusty electrical room to the dank, poorly- lit area marked off with canvas and plastic tarps to delineate makeshift shops. Whispering voices trailed through the room, and eyes followed them as he scanned the stalls.  
She stopped him a few meters in. "Here we are," she said, leaning up against the back wall, trying not to make eye contact with the few lurking, pathetic creatures wandering around.  
"Thank you. " he pulled a 500- Euro note out of a roll and handed it to her. Two week's pay at Margot's. "I think it is advisable that you do not linger here."  
With that warning, he turned and walked quickly up the narrow room, holding his satchel to his hip. Without looking back, eight meters down he turned left into a stall with an unusual white rune spray painted on black canvas which draped completely across the front of the stall. A dim amber light glowed momentarily when he pushed aside the canvas, then darkness.  
Sharada knew better than to dawdle in a place like Marche des Alpes, but she felt responsible for bringing Severus here. She waited a minute, then followed his steps. As she neared the stall, walking on the opposite side of the passage to appear more discrete, two burly men bumped into her from behind and pushed her against the concrete wall as they passed. She stopped and brushed herself off, checking her pockets. Just then Severus, his satchel heavier and swollen, came out from behind the canvas. The two thugs spotted him and slowed their pace, crossing silently behind him.  
By the time she convinced her voice to scream out a warning, it was too late. The men had jumped him, and he was buckled over, pressing the heavy bag against his chest to guard it. Their kicks, their punches seemed to be in slow motion. She finally heard her own voice when she'd kicked the bigger of the two in the groin. The giant cringed and doubled over, and she attacked the smaller man from behind, digging her fingernails into his face until she could feel blood, kicking him in the back of the knees. Severus took the opportunity to throw the other man down and knock the wind out of him with his heavy satchel. The big thug lay immobilized on the ground. The second man, seeing his odds diminish, ran down the row of stalls without a backwards look.  
She didn't flatter herself. Evened odds, combined with the unexpectedness of her attack had scared them off, not her fighting skill. She didn't want to be here when they regrouped, though. She brought both of them into a pool of light. He was bleeding, and his clothes were a mess. "Let's get out of here, Severus. Now."  
  
Twenty-five minutes later they were back in front of Margot's. His nose has stopped bleeding, but his coat was ripped and dark bruises were forming under one eye and on his cheek. She hoped no one had followed them out of Marche des Alpes. Thunder echoed in the far distance. It was going to rain again.  
A single, hazy street lamp lit the entry to her apartment. Two hours ago she was imagining fantastic sexual romps with this stranger. The bedraggled, bruised man in front of her now presented an entirely different picture. More vulnerable. Infinitely more human than the lone academic she'd flirted with in the cafe this afternoon. And in need of some medical attention.  
"I live upstairs from the cafe." Sharada explained as they neared the building. "Come in, I can tend to your cuts." It was the least she could do, she thought. And what if someone saw them out here? They weren't safe.  
At the stoop, she searched her pockets for her keys. Dropped them. Damn. She bent down to retrieve them and heard him mumble something. The door creaked open. She'd forgotten how little things like that worked when you possessed magic abilities.  
Up two flights of stairs, the adrenaline coursing through her body from the fight finally wore off, and Sharada started to shake. She felt tears coming on. She stopped at her door, but found she couldn't move to open it. She'd never felt so scared or tired in her life. Severus came up behind her, laid down the satchel, and touched her shoulders. His fingers pushed into the heavy denim of her jacket, then lingered in a protective gesture. He whispered quietly in her ear, "You made it home, and you're safe. It's just shock." His voice, his touch reassured her. She steadied herself, using the gentle pressure of his hands and took in another breath of his scent on air that felt electrified. She pulled herself together.  
  
She turned the lights on and looked suspiciously around the room. She expected the scene of disarray and destruction that every Hollywood movie writer performs on unwitting accomplices' apartments. Thankfully, everything was as she left it. Faded art posters on the walls, a somewhat dirty kitchenette in the corner, a desk and chair, and a double bed. Little more. She let him in and locked the door behind her. He sat on the bed, gingerly placing the bag underneath. She got out the first aid kit and cleaned off his face.  
"Why don't you just use your wand..." he stopped, realizing the truth. "You're not..."  
"Not magical? No, afraid not. "  
"Yet you work at Margot's and know where the Marche des Alpes is located?" She could swim in the waves of disbelief emanating from him.  
"I'm full of surprises." She smiled faintly and kept working. Tending his cuts was therapeutic to her too, helping her put the last hour behind her. "You'll have to heal the old-fashioned way for now."  
He sat patiently while she nursed him, watching her behind hooded eyes. Once, as she was reaching down for gauze, Sharada swore a faint smile twisted across his lips.  
"It's none of my business what you've got in that bag, Severus, but tell me I'm not going to be in trouble for helping you," Sharada said as she put away the bandages. She opened a bottle of whiskey and poured two glasses, returning to sit next to him on the bed.  
Severus took a healthy gulp from the tumbler. "Not with the Paris police, no. I can only hope you weren't recognized. I told you not to stay."  
"If I hadn't, you'd be the one passed out on the concrete back there. Or worse." She drained her glass and poured another shot.  
"Take this back." she reached into her pocket and pulled out his 500- Euro note. "This isn't something I do for money."  
He seemed to understand, placed the bill on the table, and took another drink of whiskey.  
The open windows let in a slight breeze, carrying a faint sound of traffic and far away music. Sitting next to him, Sharada closed her eyes and listened. In the middle of one of the busiest cities on earth, she felt as if she was alone with this raven-haired man on her own island. Safe. Intimate. She turned to Severus. He was watching her, sipping the last of his whiskey. When their eyes met, he leaned in and kissed her. No explanation, no coyness.  
All afternoon she'd been imagining what he would taste like, what this would feel like. She thought she'd unleash his wild side, bringing him to his knees begging for more. She was wrong. He was in control, and like his reassurances in the hall earlier, she accepted it and acquiesced completely.  
Her attention focused on responding to his rhythm. For once, she was going to leave what happened next up to her partner. She met his lips, his tongue, in a slow and erotic pulse that traveled straight to her sex. He gently, insistently nudged her up against the wall at the head of the bed, then unfastened the buttons on her shirt until they were almost open to the waist. He pulled both sides of the shirt down at once, pinning her arms to her sides. Sharada's heart sped. He tugged at the thin, cotton chemise and revealed her small, firm breasts. Gently, he rolled her nipples between his fingers- those long, graceful, adept fingers she'd watched all afternoon.  
As their kisses delved deeper, she reached for his shoulders and pulling herself closer to him to feed her passion. He shook his head and, with a devilish smirk, used his weight to push her back firmly against the wall, a subtle and insistent reminder that he was in control. She arched her head backwards as much as she could, and relaxed as his lips moved down her neck, with biting, rough kisses. She could feel her skin come alive everywhere he touched, everywhere he kissed, lower and lower until he reached her breasts. Her muscles involuntarily tightened between her thighs again, and she arched her hips upward to ease the pressure.  
His lips, his fingertips sent currents of desire through her she yearned to reciprocate. He wouldn't let her- not yet. He unbuttoned the rest of her shirt and threw it to the ground, tossing the chemise after it. Arms freed, she balanced herself, wrapping her legs around his hips as her skirt rode up to her waist.  
His hand rode lower, and he slid his finger under her silk panties. He insisted on a slow rhythm- when Sharada moved her hips faster, he held her down and shook his head almost imperceptibly. This was seduction on his terms, at his pace. He knew what he was doing, and was going to relish in her reaction as much as his own satisfaction. Sharada felt his tempo, learned his body and its reactions, and improvised around it. She wanted to show him how badly she ached for him. She struggled with the buttons on his shirt between heavy breaths of air. Being a part of him was all she could think about, all her body wanted. She sat on the edge of the the double bed, letting her clothes fall, then straddling him on the bed. This time, he did not stop her. She felt his hardness and a heady pulse of energy coursed through her body.  
Watching him under her, hair tangled, a dark cut on one cheek, she felt nothing but his masculine power. This wasn't magic. This was pure, human desire. The most powerful need she'd ever felt. Her body responded with another, almost painful pulse. She'd never felt so ready in her life.  
"Turn out the light" he said, his voice rough and deeper than before, clouded with his own desire.  
It was the last thing she wanted. She shook her head and resumed her battle against the buttoned shirt. "I want to see you naked, Severus. Like me. Fair is fair."  
"I don't play fair." he rasped, and the single light extinguished.  
Right now her body was aching for Severus' touch, in light or darkness. If he was modest, fine. She'd still get what she wanted, what Severus was completely willing to give. Their lips met again, harder and rougher. She grinded her hips gently against the insistent bulge in his pants. Sharada didn't know where she would find the control to wait much longer before she got release. She wanted to show Severus how strong her desire was. He was laying under her now. She could have him - now.  
The streetlight was still bright enough to see by, and Sharada finally pulled off his shirt. He pulled her down to him instantly with all the strength in his arms. She could feel him unfastening his pants under her, fumbling only slightly as he held her to him while he undressed. She couldn't understand why he had to have control over that, too. She felt his balance shift, and used it to her advantage, breaking free of his clutches, ready to tear off the rest of his garments.  
Severus Snape shot her a volatile look of fear, disgust, and anger. It completely shocked her . What was it? She straightened and sat up.  
When she looked down she saw what he was hiding instantly. A horrific roadmap of scars traversing the length and breadth of his chest. Left by claws? A wand? A curse? He froze, the passion on his face drained instantly. He sensed her revulsion.  
Thunder rumbled again in the distance over the sounds of the Paris streets. In the blink of an eye, Sharada thought about what the scars said about the man who survived whatever made them. The man who'd been entirely focused on pleasing her, and taking his pleasure from hers.  
Severus moved to sit up, breaking the haze of passion surrounding them.  
No. These horrible scars are a part of him, a part of his story. I want to be a part of him, too. It was time for her to take control. She stopped him, laying one hand powerfully on his lean stomach. She bent over him, and whispered in his ear, "Don't move. Don't you dare move." With one hand, she traced a finger gently over the scars. They were intricate, deep, and strangely fascinating to her. She followed their trails until they started to become familiar. It was her own rhythm now, her time to take control.  
"Don't you find them disgusting?" he said, his harsh Northern accent adding a tinge of sadness to his voice.  
"They're something you've revealed to me. A new layer of you for me to decipher. They're part of you, I want you." She pressed her body against his side, kissing his neck and caressing the scars, as if they were the most tender, sensual part of him.  
He reclined again on the bed, watching her with disbelief. A tenderness enveloped him, doubling the desired he'd felt for this petite, black haired sylph.  
Garments slid to the floor, and he rolled her over, renewed in his own craving. She'd faced the evidence of his darkest secret and accepted it. Her legs spread to him, and he entered her with a sigh that revealed the depths of his loneliness. She met him thrust for thrust, gripping his hips over hers and arching her whole body back as she felt every muscle tighten in anticipation.  
She bucked under him, reaching out to pull him to her, to take as much of him as she could into her as she climaxed. It sent him over the edge, one final throb, a release of everything he'd ever held on to, then a slow, delicate return. He laid his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes, feeling her heart race, breathing in her scent.  
Sharada knew what she wanted to say. That she had never felt so satisfied, or so close to another person after only a few hours. That whatever the depths of their differences that divided them, she would reach out to him. She'd help him heal all his scars.  
She stayed silent, though, stroking his tangled black hair, watching his back rise and fall with his breath in the streetlight. Silence enveloped them, then sleep.  
  
The clamor of wet, Monday morning traffic outside her open window roused Sharada from the deepest slumber. Events unfurled themselves in her memory.  
He was gone. I shouldn't feel bad, she rationalized. I got what I wanted, and so did he.  
She put on a silk kimono hanging on a hook and stood at the window, trying to convince herself she was not looking for a certain dark-haired man amid a crowd of umbrellas in a misty morning rain. I'm getting too old for one-night stands, she thought. This morning after hurt too much.  
The kitchenette had been cleared off in one corner. A leather pouch sat on top a piece of paper. So he'd left something. She approached the items gingerly. Gifts from wizards were right up there with wooden horses in her book, even a gift from Severus.  
The pouch contained a single stone, ten centimeters or so in diameter, of a fiery orange-red. In the morning light, its reflected reds and yellows mimicked flames of a fire, though it was cool in her hand. She replaced it in its pouch. Better she not find out what it did right now. Under the pouch, a piece of thick cream-colored paper, torn from his journal. Spidery, perfect handwriting she recognized from yesterday at the cafe.  
  
Sharada-  
I must oblige you to keep this, as I cannot  
take it across the border without arousing  
suspicion. Its partner is safe with me.  
Tell no one. Our paths will cross again. Soon.  
-Severus  
  
Under the note, a small stack of 500-Euro bills.  
Horns honked and the rain came down a little harder. Sharada laid down on the bed, the note still in her hand, and breathed in his smell on her pillow. 


End file.
